Sweet Disease
by scrapbullet
Summary: Zane!Sylar/Mohinder. Set during the infamous roadtrip of season one. Mohinder dreams, and let's just say it's not exactly a good dream.


Disclaimer; I don't own a thing, sadly. SIGH sad times. This ficlet is set during the infamous road trip of season one.

Sweet Disease

Breathlessness, and the weight of a hundred regrets pushes down on Mohinders chest, inescapable.

Failure and hopelessness combined with his fears only causes this nightmare to become more real, vivid in it's context, a glass coffin buried beneath the soft soil. _Where?_ It matters not. For panic is too busy bubbling up in his chest, pressing against his voice-box, screams strangled and collapsing repeatedly against the transparent prison.

Oppressive.

Airless.

Darkness.

What is this, but a terror? The metaphor of this, Mohinders glass coffin is the prison of his fears and his regrets. And _oh... how poetic it is, yes?_

Sobs of fright are nothing in this claustrophobic haven, where Mohinders fingers scratch incessantly at the walls of his manmade grave, blood trickling in rivulets down his fingers where fingernails have snapped away. He breaths in his tears, mingled with dirt and carbon dioxide and the walls close in, a tragic torturous device designed to break the geneticist down, reducing him to a child whose tears stain youthful cheeks. Too late.

Mohinder's breathing in the darkness.

It taints. It swims its way through his system like an evil little parasite, spreading it's thick inkiness to every corner of Mohinders soul. It runs through his veins, dances through capillaries and nestles in the soft muscle of his heart and rots it away until it is utterly black.

And those tears cease. For what does it matter?

Lashes are dark against Mohinders cheeks, eyes clenched shut as he relaxes, heart pumping the viscous evil through his body until it is one with him, and it is the only thing he has left. It is his saviour, this disease full of the negativity buried in an educated mind.

The short, shallow scratches in the glass are perfect in that they are his marker, his grave stone.

And so, wallowing in all of this, when the light comes, Mohinder is more fearful of it than he is of the end of his own life. The warm sunlight against his face blinds him, forcing its heat into his lungs in which he so quickly denies. _No. You cannot change me. The sweet darkness is in me and I covet it._

The fingers that trace his cheekbones are cool, soothing. It's almost as if the disease inside him has become manifest, human, a shadow that kisses his lips with a dark passion that has Mohinders heart kicking into action, thumping joyously in tune with this being, this man.

"_Mohinder."_

Such sweet promise in a kiss; sharp, white teeth that bite and draw blood, bruising his lips with their vicious intent.

He can taste it; the metallic bitterness on his tongue, a flavour so distinct that it is akin to fine, aged wine.

"_Mohinder."_

It's a voice he knows all too well; deep and husky, one that sets the flame in his chest burning and instead of consuming the disease that taints him, it gives him new life, swallowing him up. But _oh_, he cannot place the voice with a name, numb and with lungs screaming for air, for this man is taking all of him, all that Mohinder is offering, and more. A kiss that consumes him as much as the darkness, smudging the edges of his vision and washing away all sensation until all that remains is the kiss, at once harsh and biting, and sweet and passionate.

He can't tell the difference.

He doesn't really care.

Its consumption reaches fever pitch, and Mohinder is sightless, speechless. It melts away and becomes abstract and indescribable and... _and..._

"Mohinder?"

The sun stings his eyes and, rubbing away the last vestiges of sleep, Mohinder can only force his breathing to calm, rubbing the ache in his chest absently. The relative safety of a cheap motel room and a companion, whose voice and face appear to be full of concern, chases away the nightmare, though his body still thrums with adrenaline, scentless sweat all but dripping from his prone form. "Zane... I... it seems I overslept."

"You were dreaming. A nightmare?" Cocking his head to one side, 'Zane' offers the steaming cup to the geneticist with a veiled smile, feigning concern.

Taking the cup with a reserved sigh, Mohinder merely sips at the tea gratefully, even if the taste leaves a lot to be desired; weak and milky, with a hint of something almost coppery. "Yes... well... I'm afraid I don't remember much of it."

"No matter." Sylar murmurs, settling down onto the edge of the bed with a simple grace. Oddly, Mohinder finds that the break into his personal space effects him none. "It was only a dream." Fingers smooth over the geneticists damp hair, an action intended to soothe. "Nothing can harm you in a dream." Pulling the warm body against him, Zane – as he calls himself – presses a kiss to those soft curls.

And Mohinder? Oh, he's utterly oblivious to the secret smile on his companions lips.

For you see, what dear, sweet Mohinder does not realise, is that the dull pain in his chest is more than just the afterglow of a dream, whereupon in some instances a dreamer can feel the pain inflicted whilst he slumbers. No, for a deep, black smudge rests on his chest, a bruise yet not, hidden beneath the soft cotton of a tee. The size of a fist, it is, residing... right... over... _the heart_.

Such an naive man, he is, yet addictive.

That, of course, works to Sylar's advantage.


End file.
